Snowman

 

Stone cold proof
for the need of creation,
silent sentinel
of something sacred,
birthed by clumsy young hands.
 
Rising triumphant,
totem of the season’s mischief,
destined to melt
into the blooming Spring.
 
Made human
with patchwork features,
almonds and bruised carrot end face,
soggy stick limbs claim victory
over freeze anonymity.
 
Never again another snow pile
but a life,
fleeting like ours,
destined for the storm drain
or brown grass,
and leaving us with its joy.

Snow Language

 

The salt spackle splatter
of plow truck dialect
 
marks our caravan,
frost-hardened
from the industrial grime
of the cold
 
this underworld of harsh
allows our cozy fireplaces,
our gingerbread
 
the cruel season
also powers the firebrand sunset,
gives rest and time for comfort,
readies the earth for blooming
 
but first
 
delivers the pain
to make us stronger
with the sting of chapped skin
and brown dim
of night-sky afternoons
 
let this freeze
press us into its service
as we rush headlong into our winters
grinding through hard truths
and ready for Spring.

Dance of the Frozen Devils

the good marrow

can be ice and snow

as we clutch hands

and brace

against the windy cold

the warmth inside

feels better

with a thawing face

only after such blustery violence

do we find our place

drinking it all in deeply

the close comfort

leaves us sleepy

but we spark again

alive at the freezing source

to dance with fellow devils

joyous

as life runs its course

Winter Thrives

let it pain us to the bones

the wind like splinters

that fires the soul

solid strength

piling higher than snow

savor the chilled air

the frost breath

that finds you there

to chase the skies

to fight, to dare

the hard, the cold

is winter’s great flower

breathe it deep

to gather power

Quest for Cold

Bring us that air of steel,

the punching breeze

that makes us real.

Thrive in crystal bold

blankets of white

that let us draw from the cold

to give us might.

Let us have the joy

of breath like ice

a little longer.

Give us the season

that makes us stronger.

From Mohonk Mountain House

somehow at peace

in these mountains

as cold bites at every turn

sweeping views

to dare the cold

while drawing heat

from our own dark flames

tempting ghosts

with every turn

down quiet halls

plotting

our own worlds

among the chattering diners

braving chill barns

to marvel at glorious history

carved out hard rock